nakedness,
give it time
to recover
hell is a book.
she reads it
in a room
that’s alive.
attic or no, I want
to miss
my father.
it was for healing the hand of the plain hand
that I
was touched / well blood
on a bread
crumb
massage me
a brainwashed
worm / well comb
all you want
the eyesight
of god / swallow
a hair
in the house
that birth
built…
–
can’t
this once
a thing
die
in the sanctuary
of its double
I go with dove to high
dives / I am on
the pill
the swimmer’s
pill / for nine
months
I’ve hidden
a rabbit
from no one’s
hormonal
christ
not
for devouring
the mannequin
but for eating
the seeds, it was
(in a coloring
book
for cigarettes)
beaten
by a baby
a baby
could love
when asked
I say
I see
on the floor
of a mudhut
a sex toy
having
a seizure.
I kiss the feet
you’re the future
of.
for anyone who ordered or was sent my newest book of poems, MOON tattoo, please note that the poem ‘vamp’ has a slight error in it other than being written in the first place. the line “I am silent, but did…” shows as “I am silent, bud did…” – such is being one’s own editor. it will be corrected, and if any would like a free signed copy of the book as an apology, message me here or at bartonsmock@yahoo.com
(very sorry)
poem should be as below:
[vamp]
of the body
I would rather
be
punching bag
than funhouse
in the hour
of things
or a thing
for hours…
–
I am not silent
but did
from my father
inherit
the alphabet
most women
use
–
we meet
the same
beginning, recall
–
memory
had its mind
made up
death
my way
of saying
goodbye
to god
–
had you lived
or enjoyed
amnesia…
eating behind the mirror’s back
it was all
hick lore
to me
a scratch
in scar’s
nakedness, a loss
of infancy
awarded
only
to the deaf
who dug up
the ears
of god
for nothing
more
than the sound
of depression
going blind
in the garden
of the hairdresser’s
hair
kingsoftrain 